


A Gentleman Would Buy Me Breakfast First (Arthur's Scars)

by NadiasGhost



Series: Scars Series (Hetalia) [2]
Category: APH - Fandom, Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, Soft TM, and by people i mean previous monarchs of england, but also lots of people dying, exessive use of the french language, i cant remember what i wrote five minutes ago, i dont even know at this point, idk guys, just spicy things happened previously, kind arthur whump, rn francis is just kinda sad and kissing his boi's ouchies to make them better, swearing....????, theres nothing spicy going on rn, this author needs sleep rip, this wasnt really finished but then i was like "fuck it" and gave it an ending so i could post it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 11:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12680604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadiasGhost/pseuds/NadiasGhost
Summary: Arthur blinked back late morning light filtering through gauzy white curtains and smiled. The sheets were soft and expensive, and the room smelled like roses and wine. And sure, he had only a few moments to enjoy it, before he had to come up with an excuse, a meeting or an emergency or.... He sighed.Francis stirred slightly in his sleep, nose sniffling into the hotel pillows adorably.Arthur didn't want to leave. He didn't want to slip on the clothes on the floor silently, step out into the cold Paris air, face the late morning sun and his inevitable hangover. Buy a black tea at a cafe where he'd have to speak French and pretend he didn't miss the pretty man still sleeping in a hotel room in the middle of downtown.**"Arthur?" Francis gathered up all of the Englishman that he could, "it's okay, it's going to be okay. I know it probably hurts right now, but you've done this before, it will pass."**Based mainly on the headcannon that when a country's leader dies they experience the death, (and in this case can retain a scar from it). Arthur has a lot of scars.





	A Gentleman Would Buy Me Breakfast First (Arthur's Scars)

**Author's Note:**

> hello this is hella unbeta-ed, not edited at all, im SO tired right now but i'm just gonna post this. Maybe I'll edit it tomorrow, maybe I wont.... Who knows....  
> I make absoultly no claims that any of these facts are in any way entirely historically accurate. This is a fluff fic in the FrUk tag: keep your expectations low.  
> That being said I'd like to thank Wikipedia for being my MAIN source of research and facts on english monarchs

Arthur blinked back late morning light filtering through gauzy white curtains and smiled. The sheets were soft and expensive, and the room smelled like roses and wine. And sure, he had only a few moments to enjoy it, before he had to come up with an excuse, a meeting or an emergency or.... He sighed. 

Francis stirred slightly in his sleep, nose sniffling into the hotel pillows adorably. 

Arthur didn't want to leave. He didn't want to slip on the clothes on the floor silently, step out into the cold Paris air, face the late morning sun and his inevitable hangover. Buy a black tea at a cafe where he'd have to speak French and pretend he didn't miss the pretty man still sleeping in a hotel room in the middle of downtown. 

Arthur wanted to burrow back under the blankets, cuddle up against Francis and drift back off to sleep. He wanted to stay until Francis awoke and then eat a lazy breakfast in bed. Maybe they would order room service. Maybe they'd go of a morning walk downtown. 

It had been too long of silently sneaking out, too long of crisp air in different cities, hangovers and guilt with his morning tea. 

Without really meaning to, Arthur reached out and traced a finger over the curve of the frenchman's bicep. He let his hand wander down and over his elbow, his wrist, his hand. Arthur traced over the pads of Francis's fingers until suddenly, his hand was being held. 

"A gentleman would buy me breakfast first," Francis murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He gently held Arthur's hand, and cracked open one eyelid. He almost looked amused, tired and a little bit shocked to be finding Arthur still next to him in bed. Arthur blinked down at him, face heating up. Francis looked.... In love. 

Arthur tugged his hand away, bright red. He didn't even know why he was embarrassed. He was naked, tangled up in the sheets, but it wasn't like Francis hadn't already seen all of him last night. He felt vulnerable under that sleepy, loved up gaze. He felt exposed, like Francis was seeing right through him. 

He hadn't even meant to stay.... Not really. 

"You still have a scar there, non?" The Frenchman asked, clearly requesting his hand back. Arthur gave it willingly. 

Francis inspected it closely, each digit of Arthur's pale fingers, his nails the lines across his palms. As well as the scars.

On both hands Arthur sported a large patch of scaring. On the hand Francis held the scar tissue ran up his palm and up his pinky.. "Mmh Arthur?" Francis inquired. "Yes?" 

"Countries.... Can't get scars. Unless it's from a king or queen," Francis said, as more of a question than a statement. He ran his fingertips lightly over the scar tissue. Arthur hummed in agreement. 

"Richard the Second. The fourteenth of February, 1400. They'd stuck him in Pontefract Castle," Arthur said quietly, "he starved, and for five days I felt tired, weak. I guess he, um, he died against the wall, clawing at it." 

Arthur looked down at his own hands. Francis reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. "1400. That was...." 

"Yes, it was when we were fighting. Bad. I wanted to..... To come find you but I was so mad at you and you were so mad at me," Arthur admitted. He blushed even more, feeling silly for admitting it. At the time, he'd felt helpless and terrified. The ceiling had been spinning in circles as he lay down with his back pressed to the floor, splayed out at the mercy of gravity. He was no longer hungry but.... empty, and untethered. It was something akin to vertigo, the few hours after starvation would kill a person who could die. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, Angleterre," Francis whispered. Arthur was surprised they were doing this, the whole emotions piece. And at 11:30 on a crisp morning in Paris, too, when Arthur was supposed to be drinking his guilty tea. 

Francis' hand moved from Arthur's hair to his lips, where a small scar was still visible at the corner of his mouth. "I was here for this one." 

June 11th, 1727 

"Can't your goddamn French buggy go any faster?" Arthur sighed and slouched into the bench seat, scowling. There was a quiet French laugh from beside him. "But alas, it is not the horses, Angleterre, it is the traffic of the city." 

"Well perhaps your city should be a little more organized, frog," Arthur snarked, feeling like a child. The Frenchman hummed, looking up from the window to his carriage companion, "perhaps you should not accept rides from me then, Angleterre. I imagine a carriage ride from your country to the world meeting wherever it might be would be faster than a joint trip with me." 

Arthur turned his petulant scowl on Francis, "I've already told you! It costs less this way and it--" Arthur stopped talking and blinked slowly, opening and closing his mouth. "It--" he blinked again and again, his eyes unfocused, "it-- what--- franc--" 

Arthur began to slump, the left side of his body going numb. His face went slack on one side and he toppled onto Francis, still blinking and struggling to swallow. "My-- head--" 

Francis rapped urgently against the wall of the carriage and it stopped moving abruptly. The driver ran around and yanked open the door. "Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé monsieur?" (What's happened sir?) 

"Mon ami, il est juste ... devenu engourdi. Je crois qu'il est malade," (my friend, he just.... Became numb. I believe he is ill) Francis explained, looking up at the driver and the down to Arthur again frantically. He knew what had happened. There was only one explanation. 

"Il a l'air d'avoir eu un apoplexy. Je peux vous emmener à l'hôpital mais ..." (He looks like he's suffered an apoplexy. I can drive you to the hospital but...) The man trailed off, clearly indicating there wasn't much he could do. Francis looked down at Arthur. "Arthur, can you hear me? Is it... Goddamnit what's his name?? George!! Is it George? Is he dying?" 

The carriage driver stared at him, but Francis continued until the driver butted in, "Pardon moi, monsieur. Mais incitiationz-vous à ce que le roi de la Grande-Bretagne soit sur le point de mourir?" (Pardon me, sir. But are you inciting that the king of Great Britain is about to die?) "Non, non," Francis responded, waving him off, "pas sur le point de mourir, en train de mourir." (Not about to die, dying.) 

"l'important est mon ami," Francis pressed, "pourquoi ne me répond-il pas?" (The important thing is my friend, why is he not responding?) "" (It's the apoplexy, sir. He can't speak but he can hear you.) 

"Arthur?" Francis gathered up all of the Englishman that he could, "it's okay, it's going to be okay. I know it probably hurts right now, but you've done this before, it will pass." Arthur looked up at him with frantic eyes, his face still slack, especially the left side. 

"Cet homme a besoin de repos. Emmenez-nous chez moi ici dans la ville. Vous savez où c'est, oui?" (this man needs rest. Take us to my place here in the city. You know where it is, yes?) the driver nodded, shut the door, and crawled back up into the drivers seat. 

Francis went back to Arthur, gently running fingers through his hair, and speaking in a mixture of French and English. When he realized Arthur wouldn't be able to understand half what he was saying, he took a deep breath and tried to speak slower and entirely English. "You're going to be okay, petite Lapin. This pain, it will pass. You can lie down in just one minute, okay? Just try to take deep breathes for me, even if it doesn't feel helpful, breath into your stomach...."

The carriage stopped and Arthur tuned abruptly, coughing. "I think it is over, Arthur. Can you speak?" The Englishman buried his face into Francis' stomach, and shook his head. His entire body was shivering. 

Francis gathered him all up into his arms, and carried him out of the carriage and into the Parisian flat. He took the stairs two at a time and then gently laid the Englishman in the four-poster bed of the upstairs bedroom.

The air blew hot and weighted through the window and the room was shaded, no lights yet lit. It was tidy, everything having a place, and the sheets on the bed smelled like Francis' perfume. 

Francis kneeled awkwardly, "can you shake or nod your head.." Arthur seemed to glare at him, squeezing his eyes shut. Francis breathed out heavily, the evident pain on Arthur's face sitting heavy in his stomach. He wanted to make it better, but he did know how. 

Arthur's emerald eyes blinked open, and he stared confusedly at the ceiling. "Arthur," Francis murmured, requesting his attention. He again begun to run fingers through Arthur's short hair, soothing in a strangely familiar way. As he spoke again, he smoothed over Arthur's eyebrow with his thumb. "I don't want you to worry about the king or your people just now, okay? It will be okay, you will take care of it. You are so smart and strong, there's nothing to worry about. We will take care of it, okay? But right now, can you move your pinky for me?"

Francis scooped up his hand, and he began to wiggle his smallest finger. 

** 

Arthur watched Francis intently as he pursed his lips, considering the mark. He then moved his slender fingers up, grazing over Arthur's cheek to his hairline. 

"This one is very similar," he murmured. The mark was almost invisible, even Arthur himself rarely noticed it. "Mmh," he confirmed, "it was another stroke. Edward the Third, June of 1377." 

Francis frowned, "that was when...." Arthur nodded, then looked down at his hands in the sheets. 

"I just.... Got through it on my own." 

"You've gotten through too many scars, Angleterre." 

Francis moved slowly down to his neck, and ran a thumb over the crisscrossing white lines there. "That one is Jane Tudor," Arthur joked quietly, "this one here is Charles the First." Francis giggled softly. "I'm glad you have them all named, and know which are which." 

Arthur began to tug his hands away but Francis only leaned in to kiss the white lines instead. Kiss. "That one is for Jane," he whispered. Kiss. "And that one is special for you, Charles." 

Arthur laughed, falling backwards slightly and bringing the Frenchman with him. 

Francis slid a hand down his right arm to the crook of his elbow. "Bonjour, good morning, George the Fifth," he said to Arthur's elbow in a posh British accent. Arthur smiled at him crookedly. 

January 20th, 1936: 8:30pm 

The doorbell rang, and Francis laughed himself into the entrance hall. He looked nice, but comfortably so, as though not trying. After all, this was not a date. 

"Bonsoir, Angelterre," he grinned, opening the door. Arthur looked stunning of course, in an ill fitting sweater vest and a huge coat and patched up slacks. His hair was unruly and his nose and cheeks were red from the cold and his eyes had large circles but he looked stunning. Francis leaned against the doorframe. 

"It is so unlike you to invite yourself over, Angleterre. And at such a late hour too. Whatever do you have planned on such a chilly and desolate evening? Surely, not to dine in, for the time for dinner and small talk has long passed, non?" 

Arthur rolled his eyes, then looked at the ground. "Drop the act, Francis." Francis was taken slightly aback at his bluntness. "Okay, Lapin," he said, unsure, "what is it you need?" 

Arthur shrugged, then whispered, "can I come in? It's cold." Francis moved back immediately, and then shorter nation shuffled into his entry way. 

"George the Fifth is dying," Arthur explained quietly. "Another George gone? And so soon?" Francis joked weakly. "He most likely won't last the night and the advisors.... They want his death released in the morning papers tomorrow, rather than the "less appropriate evening journals". He and his doctors have both agreed to a peaceful death at midnight. He's to be injected with morphine and cocaine, enough to be quickly lethal. And Francis I.... I don't know if it will hurt. I didn't want to be alone." 

Francis ached to yank the shorter nation into his arms, gather him all up like he'd done more than once before. But he didn't, he nodded, smiled, and took Arthur's coat, inviting him in. 

"I have a bottle of wine, open, Arthur," he called, as Arthur wandered into Francis' house, "go into the main room, we can turn on the tv." 

9:00 

"Hard to believe the pictures weren't always there, mmh," Francis remarked, sipping his wine. Arthur shrugged. He knew the Frenchman was just aiming to distract him. "I don't think the novelty of it has worn of for me just yet," he responded, tucking his legs up under him on the couch.

On screen there was music, French music, so naturally Arthur could understand about half of the song's content. 

10:00 

"I've endured some kinds of deaths so many times," Arthur remarked. Francis nodded, "as have I, Arthur." Somehow the used of his human name, something Francis rarely used, seemed personal, and it made Francis' tone waver every time. Arthur pressed on, "but this one..... Is new. I don't know what it will be like." 

"I don't think it will hurt Arthur, you don't need to be afraid. It's like falling asleep. And if you fall asleep here, eh, se la vie. It's a comfortable couch. I won't let anyone hurt you. Don't worry." 

Arthur blushed. Normally when Francis said such things he was in no right mind to respond. Now he was faced with the weight of the words upfront. "Um, okay.... Thanks." 

11:00 

"You have...." Arthur slurred, "SUCH good bone structure...." He reached up to stroke one of Francis' cheekbones. Francis laughed, but a soft laugh. "What a beautiful mind you have on morphine, Lapin." Arthur giggled. "Morphine? That sounds like porcupine!" 

12:00 

"My head isn't attached to my shoulders, Francis!" Arthur bragged, he climbed up and onto the arm of the couch, "and my feet aren't attached to my legs and my arms aren't attached to my shoulders!" He giggled and fell into Francis, "I think he must be dead now because my eyelids feel like butterflies." 

Francis sighed and attempted to right Arthur. "What did they give to him to do it?" Arthur paused, remembering, "hmmmm.. Morphine and Cocaine." 

Francis' eyebrows raised. "That explains this behaviour." Arthur frowned at him, falling sideways into the couch cushions. "I feel kinda sick too," he confided, his eyebrows scrunching together, "there's a funnel off leaves in my tummy and I don't know if it's sick or because my stupid legs are gone or because of your pretty face." 

He was making less and less sense. 

Arthur stared at his legs as though they were clearly to blame. 

“Arthur,” Francis mumbled, trying to contain a laugh, “I think you should perhaps lie down now, oui?” 

Arthur looked up at him with wide eyes. He slumped forward and placed a sideways kiss on Francis’ jaw, before falling onto his chest, dead asleep.

"A peaceful ending at midnight," Francis murmured. 

**

“These last thirties seem so long ago, though they really weren’t,” Arthur mused, “the world has been changing too fast lately, Francis.” The frenchman looked up at him. “Some changes could be for the better, non?” he whispered roughly. 

“Besides,” he said with a laugh, and another gentle kiss on Arthur’s arm, “you dress no differently since the thirties, mon ange, if it is any consolation.” Arthur hit him in a non-committal sort of fashion, and huffed.

Francis slid his hand up Arthur’s arm, eventually to his chest. “Tell me about this one,” he breathed quietly, “I don’t think I know it.” 

Arthur hummed, considering the old red gash above his heart. “I got this one as a kid,” he responded, “some time after 1000…. 1100? I can’t be sure.”

“God, we were once kids, weren’t we?” Francis mused. Arthur just hummed again. He sat up, the sheets creating a fuss as he did. Francis rolled onto his stomach, looking up to Arthur through his blond eyelashes. 

“William the Second,” Arthur said, looking distractedly at the opposite wall, his mind far away, “it’s hard for me to remember that far back. Is it hard for you, Francis? He was loud, but he let me call him Will. He treated me like a child, which was nice, I suppose since most of them treated us as prizes, didn’t they?”

Francis nodded, closing his eyes. “They were out in the forest, and I was in the parlor, because it was so cold that day. They were hunting, riding their horses and chasing deer through the snowy trees. Will would would always tell me that someday I could join him, and I would smile, but secretly I didn’t want to go in that forest with those men and kill a deer. Especially not when the castle already had so much food, so many hunts a month….”

Francis didn’t nudge him, just nodded, lying still. “An arrow pierced his ribcage in the forest,” Arthur finally whispered, “an accident, they told me but…. When is it ever truly a hunting accident? I still don’t really know what happened to Will in the forest, but….. I was in the parlor. Sitting on the floor playing with little toy knight and his noble steed. They didn’t kill deer, only bad vikings and danes and all other attackers of England, you understand.”

Francis smiled, his eyes still closed.  
“And…. I couldn’t breath. My blouse was soaked in blood, in the front and back. A nanny came into the room and started screaming. I….”

Francis wiggled forwards, and settled his head on the pillows next to Arthur. “Come here, lapin.”

Arthur looked briefly confused to be back in the hotel room. Francis wiggled forwards more, and placed a gentle kiss above Arthur’s heart, over the red gash. That kiss specifically seemed too gentle to be considered normal for Francis Bonnefoy. 

Arthur looked at him questioningly, blushing again. “Come here, lapin,” Francis demanded. Arthur tried to wiggle away, on instinct, acutely aware of his flushed cheeks and nose. 

Francis wrapped around his middle solidly and Arthur was shocked into stillness at the undeniably new feeling of Francis gently resting a head on his chest, the stubble of his chin scratching enough to be grounding. 

“So about the breakfast you owe me,” Frances murmured in a muffled sort of way. Arthur laughed in a half-laugh, half-snort sort of way, “I don’t recall making any such promise.” 

Francis yawned and nuzzled against him. It seemed to Arthur that Francis was now aware of the fact that the Englishman wasn’t about to bolt on him, and was taking full advantage of it. “Agree to disagree, mon ange. Mais, whatever the case may be, you are the one closest to the phone for room service.”

Arthur half-laughed, half-snorted again, but picked up the phone off it’s stand. “Those are certainly not all the English monarchs to have died while in power, Francis,” he commented. After Francis was silent for a moment, Arthur-- slowly, carefully, taking the deepest of breaths and being the most prepared-- began to run fingers through his shoulder length hair. 

Francis made a small pleased noise, and then whispered, “I know. But I have plenty of time for the rest.”

**Author's Note:**

> They definitely take a mid-morning walk and Arthur definitely surprises Francis by holding his hand thanks  
> **  
> I have SOOOO many other monarch deaths and corresponding scar headcannons I wanna talk about so like maybe i'll do a part two


End file.
